


Just Desserts

by olga_eulalia



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Crack Light, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2019-01-15 15:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12323952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olga_eulalia/pseuds/olga_eulalia
Summary: Unbeta'd. Non-native speaker writing here.





	Just Desserts

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Non-native speaker writing here.

Long after sundown, Flint made his way below decks and towards the galley where he found his new cook bent over some papers, reading by the dim light of a lantern. A closer investigation seemed in order. Distrust was, after all, not misplaced here.

"Mr. Silver," he said gruffly, startling the man right out of his studies. As the hour was already late, he then lowered his voice. "How are things? Managing to stay out of trouble, I hope?"

"Well,” Silver said, turning around, hands gripping the table’s edge, “it does seem considerably easier now that Randall has taken on the bulk of responsibility."

Flint stepped to his side. He lifted one of the papers. As far as he could tell, it was nothing but a recipe for the preparation of some gelatinous marine creature. Well may it serve them to be prepared for these eventualities, but for pity’s sake, may fortune well keep them from such fate. He put it back down among two leather-bound tomes and a multitude of loose sheets and, looking over the chaos with rising unease, worried the fingers of his left hand with his thumb.

A feather-light weight came to rest on his shoulder, ran down the length of his upper arm, and cupped his elbow with a reassuring squeeze.

It had been years, if not decades, since any of the members of his crew had dared to touch him in such a familiar manner. Flint stilled at the sensation, noticing how his heartbeat tottered about. He raised his head and looked into Silver’s face. No defense training had ever really prepared him for gentleness.

"Is there something I can do for you, captain?" Silver asked, tone comforting and smooth. His expression was amiable and relaxed. Flint could even see the pearly sheen of his front teeth between his parted lips. Nonetheless, the hazy notion that Silver was only biding his time, waiting for his opposite to make the first damning blunder, persisted.

"A nightcap, perhaps?" Silver continued, moving in too close, his body too warm, making the blood rush and pound near the surface of Flint's skin. "Or something else?"

As luck would have it, novice Silver, who had seen him cave in a man’s face with a six-pound cannonball, who had been there when he'd parted another man from his leg with a meat cleaver, had no idea that it wasn’t customary to threaten the men on this ship with bodily harm whenever they stepped out of line. So Flint could reach forward and fist Silver's hair while still keeping his credibility as captain more or less intact.

The thick crop of dark locks pulled taut between his fingers. Silver’s eyes turned glassy and the softest uhh escaped on his breath. In that moment, Flint could see himself, a famished beggar, sliding his tongue over the base of Silver's bared throat, then closing his mouth over the appealing shape of Silver's lips and putting his tongue there too. And he balked.

"That'll be all, Mr. Silver. Thank you." He relinquished his grip.

 

Flint stared into the darkness of night. With fingers interlocked behind his head, he was lying on his cot, letting his mind wander in a manner that was neither seemly nor, indeed, conducive to much-needed rest. A frown puckered his features. “Shit,” he muttered to himself.

 

"It appears you have finally discovered the purpose of the bay leaf," he said to his audience at large. The hubbub around the hearth at lunchtime was greater than he’d come to anticipate. The two cooks were present, but also two of the riggers, one of the gunners, and Joshua.

Silver, with his sleeves rolled up, was wiping his hands dry on a white apron that pinched his midriff like a bodice, splayed fingers dragging down the entire length of it. "I'll take that as a compliment, captain." He beamed.

Somehow, that little exchange had drawn the entire group’s undivided attention and the chatter had quieted down to nil. Randall, whose hair was as frazzled as the look in his eyes, regarded the scene with an eagerness that bordered on lechery.

"As you were, if you please." Flint nodded curtly and, before his discomfort could become any more obvious, left them to their gossip.

 

Late afternoon was spent absorbed in the perusal of maps and the taking of notes. A flimsy distraction, as the big event moved inexorably closer and the tingle of excitement settled in his bones. But one thing led to another, and soon he found himself leafing through one of his books. There was a passage in the account of the sea battle at B-- that felt somehow incomplete, beckoning him to go over the maneuvers in his mind and piece together a coherent strategy. But a knock on his cabin door snipped his concentration. He ran a hand over his face.

"Yes?"

Clatter outside. Then Silver poked his head into the room. "May I?"

He entered, serving three dishes at once. Balancing the third on his bare forearm, he waited for Flint to roll up the charts before he gingerly arranged one after the other on the desktop. The first two bowls contained supper. Which was rather considerate, Flint thought, as time had slipped him by and he’d missed the communal meal.

"What's this, then?" He indicated the last, linen-covered dish.

With a flourish, Silver revealed it to be a sponge cake garnished with some type of fruit, possibly apple, whose surface had been baked to a fine copper colour.

Flint looked at Silver’s expectant face sharply. "I'm sure you were familiarized with our customs. Equal shares for everybody. I trust you can manage to make forty-three portions out of that cake?"

“I’ll see what I can do, captain,” Silver said, eyes a blazing blue, as he removed himself and the offending dessert from Flint’s presence.

Supper turned out to be warmed-up lunch, a thick potato soup that yielded the odd piece of meat, hearty in flavour. As it definitely carried more spice this time around, Flint poured himself a good measure of rum which he diluted with water. But one had to count one’s blessings, he mused, it wasn’t the eternal fish soup. And if this whole endeavour to capture the Spanish treasure galleon did fail, Silver, at least, would make a not completely useless husband to someone, someday.

 

He gaged the hour by looking at the moon outside his cabin window and took the mint leaf out of his mouth. It was almost time for his round on the main deck. He cleared the desk to some extent in preparation for next day and was busy stowing away his cartographic instruments when Silver reappeared, wielding the pewter once more. What measly amount of benign mood had accumulated throughout supper quickly evaporated at the sight of him striding into the room and coming around the desk, as though he’d been given permission.

A reprimand ready on his tongue, Flint saw to his added dismay that a very large, succulent portion of the cake still remained sitting in the middle of the plate, sweating butter.

"You didn't specify the size of it," Silver said, leaning his weight against the desk. He smelled of pepper and burnt sugar, a confusing combination.

In truth, the entire situation seemed to be a challenge specifically concocted to test Flint’s patience. He watched, on edge, as Silver, holding his gaze with brutal fervor, picked up the cake, put more than half of it in his mouth and took such a massive bite that he had to use his fingers to keep everything stuffed inside his bulging cheek. What remained of the slice he held out as an offering.

Flint bristled with irritation. Though he could see himself gradually accepting it at his mouth in order to take his share, could perhaps even see himself abandoning his seat and planting a kiss on disobedient Silver, making him cough and sputter, he’d long since decided that harbouring one fantastical idea and pursuing it, often to his detriment, was quite enough.

“I believe I expressly did,” Flint said, rising from his chair to stare Silver down. “I ought to have you flogged for this.”

Silver seemed unfazed. His thumb was chasing stray crumbs across his chin and pushing them between his lips, as he chewed and swallowed with some difficulty. Eventually, he licked the corner of his mouth, a glistening slide of pink. “How many?”

“What?”

“Strokes. How many?”

Flint felt like he’d taken a punch to the throat. His next words grated. “For a first-time offender such as yourself? Five are protocol.”

“You would administer the punishment yourself?” Unwavering, Silver stared back at him. Some of his breaths were audible, chest rising and falling like heavy swell.

An imaginary bite of the cake ground to mush between Flint’s back teeth. “I’d make sure you learned your lesson.”

“And I am to wear the apron while you do it, yes?” Silver blinked slowly up at him. “While you teach me?” His voice seemed to lower during that last inquiry. His hands were already moving to unbutton his pants.

Distantly aware that he was doing it, Flint nodded. Though, as far as he knew, a removal of clothes was not mandatory. And, as far as he knew, corporal punishment was not something to be negotiated with the offender in the first place. Besides, as the practice had been abandoned on his pirate ship, there weren’t any of the tools needed for such a chastisement in his vicinity. No stick, no rod. Nothing but his own two hands. Sweat broke out along his hairline. Everything was happening too quickly, but he couldn’t let Silver call his bluff now.

At his side, Silver had arranged himself across the desk. He’d pulled down his pants to mid-thigh, spread his legs, and was resting on one forearm, but kept fumbling with the back of his shirt and tugging at his apron. He was fidgeting a surprising amount.

“Am I going to have to tie you down,” Flint said, transfixed by the display of restlessness, “or are you going to keep still?”

“I--” Silver yelped delicately. The first blow had landed.

Regretting that he’d squandered the first slap so swiftly, Flint reined himself in and promised himself to take a more measured approach, even as his thoughts were whirling out of control like a spinning top. A crimson handprint bloomed on Silver’s otherwise unblemished backside, skin stunningly responsive there. Flint repeated the motion two more times, mind rotating in a void of sense all the while, as he tried to think of the many reasons why Silver deserved this treatment, tried to think of all the reasons why this shouldn't be happening, tried to think about what Silver expected to be getting out of this in the long run, the big picture, he tried to think.

The hard smack of his palm moved Silver across the desk, buttocks jiggling and curls bouncing. The flesh looked red and burning hot. There was only one more stroke left to deliver, Flint realized.

He felt dizzy. Need was thrumming through him, but kept being denied. He was disintegrating as yet another moment passed without him sating it. But he’d never been a man to abuse his power, had only ever used the authority of his position as captain to command respect and, at worst, intimidate. He’d never expected to be goaded into _this_.

“Please, captain,” Silver said, voice pressed, white knuckles fused with the edge of the desk, “make it count.”

Flint breathed in and brought down his hand. It was steady.


End file.
